Inside the Idea of You
by starqueg
Summary: Luke could only stare dumbly as his father came alive again in the rain that took his mother, washing everything away.


**Inside the Idea of You: Chapter 1**

Disclaimer: Once again playing for the benefit of only myself (Dirty!!).

Summary: Luke could only stare dumbly as his father came alive again in the rain that took his mother, washing everything away.

Notes: No, I'm not walking away from Revisionist, I promise. Look at the re-write, it'll prove it to you. This has been brewing for years and wouldn't leave me alone, so I had to put it out there. I actually have this one halfway done already so posts shouldn't be years apart. Thanks for hanging in there.

Thanks: To Julie. She gets the job done and done amazingly well. She gets the Infinite Patience of the Year Award.

**Chapter 1**

_I fall so hard inside the idea of you_

_That's why with you can't say what I mean_

It was raining the day that everything changed.; that much he remembers. It's such an easy metaphorical reference to that day that sometimes (during maudlin reflection) it makes him chuckle.

He had wandered the quiet of the store since the thunderclouds rolled in, so much like his grandfather's pipe smoke. Things darkened slowly, making the quaint hamlet look more sinister than it had any right to. The quiet clinking and shuffling sounds of the end-of-the-month inventory were echoed by startling thunderclaps. The power cut off abruptly and he could only sigh in frustration and make his way back to the home décor section for a lightly scented candle. He fumbled around the counter for an ancient book of matches. It took four tries before the candle lit and he carried the light source back to his spot. The flame flickered along the walls making the small space dance in and out of shadows, but he could now see the pages of the inventory clearly.

Once he'd sorted the discrepancies in bolt counts, he moved a shelf lower to peruse the ratchets. He transcribed the numbers in shorthanded chicken-scratch. Another clap of thunder drew his attention from the slightly yellowed pages. The darkness was absolute beyond the window. He could only make out the glow of the lamppost and the fairy lights of the gazebo. He'd never seen such an eerie sight in Stars Hollow. If his mother was still around she'd say it was the "chill of foreboding". She was superstitious like that. Just as he took a step back from the gloom, a splatter of rain hit the window like an inkblot, shaking the pane with a rush of quick followers.

He returned to his task as the rain picked up force. He suddenly realized that the storm could become more serious than the local meteorologist had predicted. He closed the ledger and stepped behind the counter, resting the worn leather-bound tome next to an ancient radio. When turned on, the radio spouted loud static in protest. With a few flicks of his wrist, Archibald Durnam of Hartford A.M. fame was predicting large scale hail and torrential rains in a booming, doomsday voice. He quickly shut him up with a final flick of the knob and the store was blanketed in blessed, almost silence once again.

He was getting used to the quiet. It wasn't as shocking as it was a month ago.

He Picked up the ledger once more and rounded the counter, dropped to a squat in front of the shelf and quickly took up the practiced perusal. His fingers easily counted the larger handheld tools.

The wind shifted again, rattling the windowpanes. He ignored it. The rain was hitting the handmade wind chimes hanging precariously outside the store's entry door. The tinkling sound was so similar to her laughter that he quickly glanced over his right shoulder to the counter. She wasn't there; not in her normal spot upon the counter, legs swinging madly, heels hitting the polished wood like galloping horses. Not flipping honey-straw curls over her shoulder with a saucy wink. He could hear her whiskey sweet voice if he listened hard enough, reading from the latest issue of National Geographic while "oohing" and "aahing" over the landscape photography.

The soggy tinkling continued its love song drenched in rain. His heavy sigh reeked of nostalgia, so he ran a cool palm from forehead to lips. The shock of course stubble against the sensitive skin of his palm jerked him from his reverie.

He had waited so long to grow some semblance of facial hair that its overbearing appearance was constantly startling to him. No matter the ceaseless teasing at his premature shaving attempts, it now appeared to be proving its existence by sheer volume. Not that he really cared anymore.

The oppressive silence was enough to drive any twenty-something absolutely mad. He often wondered what college was like for all of his high school buddies. The train to UConn departed Stars Hollow sans one state track champ. He was left behind again and again, but no one had left quite the gaping hole that she had (aside from his mother, of course). His mother, it seemed, had not died because he wasn't good enough, fun enough, enough enough. She hadn't taken luggage with her when she passed. Rachel had. Forty-two long days ago.

He was exhausted from not thinking about her. He moved on to the next shelf and forced out a quiet chuckle when his next item dictated that he tally the hoses. Three had been purchased, probably in anticipation of the upcoming spring. Idiots, his internal monologue gruffed. It was a monologue that seemed to be scripted by his uncle more and more these days, a situation that amused his father to no end.

The burdens on his conscience were anvil-heavy lately. His father, the ACME icing on the weight. Liz had been gone less than a year and William was no closer to recovering from the loss. While his father had lost the vivaciousness he possessed when his mother was around, he was still a parent, and a loving one at that. Any trace of that man was gone and now he, the son, had to fill the role of caretaker. That's why he was here. Still.

Frustrated by his lack of concentration, he gave up on his task, knowing he could finish it up in the early morning. He brought the ledger to the messy stack of papers behind the counter and carefully laid it on top after shuffling the papers into some order. He looked to the ceiling and wondered what his father could possibly be doing in the upstairs office, since he, himself, had been doing all of the paperwork for months. As if in answer, there was the reassuring sound of footsteps on the stairs. The familiar towering figure appeared from behind the hand-sewn curtain.

The man did wear his losses remarkably well. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with strong, angular features and a set mouth. He was always a serious man, but often possessed a spark in his blue eyes borne solely from years of experience and (what Luke assumed was) more than a few secrets. The son always attributed it to years of accumulated knowledge, dispensed at perfect times to willing listeners. He was soft spoken when he did speak, which wasn't often.

He felt the years recede, standing there. He felt as though his arms and legs shortened, his stubble vanished. He was a small boy again, shyly begging for his father's oft given approval.

"Hey Pops. I gave up on the inventory for the night. It was hard without power. I'll finish in the morning."

William nodded in agreement and looked around the shadowed space. He slowly walked to the window at the left of the door and rested his hands on his hips. He tilted his head, considering the storm. His son slowly followed, coming up behind his father, looking out over the older man's shoulder. He opened his mouth to end the heavy silence, but his father spoke first.

"It rained like this the day your mother died." Any thought of idle talk flew from Luke's thoughts, eyes scanning his father's profile. This was new. They never talked about her, sacred subjects remained sacred. Once again before he could say anything… "Huh. Would you look at that."

William's gaze was intently focused on something beyond the sheets of rain. He forced his eyes back to the window to see brake lights shining like red lighthouses on the ocean of the town square. It was the Hartford Greyhound, a bus that rarely had reason to exit the 202 at Stars Hollow's singular off-ramp.

The brake lights released and a cloud of exhaust puffed a cold trail behind the retreating bus. It turned left on Peach and was out of sight. The Greyhounds departure brought his gaze back to William's profile once again, he was squinting into the downpour. A look he had adopted recently, when trying to figure out a mystery. The wrinkles around William's eyes were suddenly stretched and taut as he adopted a rare expression of wide-eyed surprise.

Curiosity won him, so he returned his gaze to the square. His breath caught.

A girl stood on the sidewalk, arms carrying a wrapped bundle. It was something fragile, if the way she carried it close to her chest was any indication. She carried a large bag over one shoulder and a duffle lay at her feet. She stood in a circle of light created by a nearby lamppost, nothing shielding her from the rain. Waves and waves of chocolate, loose curls flowed, dripping down her back. Tendrils stuck to her damp, pale cheeks. Her eyes were wide, staring blankly at the space left by the large bus. She turned right quickly, then left. Her mouth was moving, talking to herself, he assumed. She turned to look behind her and suddenly her back was framed by the picturesque gazebo. She readjusted her precious package and broke out into an awkward run, making her escape up into the covered structure.

Where had she come from? He was running through the Stars Hollow face book in his head, trying to recall anyone expecting long lost relatives. He came up empty-handed.

She had loosed an arm, allowing the shoulder bag to slide onto the floor of the gazebo. She started spinning in slow circles, seemingly taking in her surroundings. At this distance he could barely make out the large grin covering her features. It was a smile he was familiar with, having seen it such a short time ago, in such an entirely different context. Rachel had smiled to herself like that as she walked out of his life. It was an uninhibited expression of absolute freedom.

The girl then broke into what he guessed was a laughing spell, and lifted her burden high over her head. She remained spinning slowly and laughing up at her prize… which was also moving. Shocked, he squinted, and moved forward so he could look more closely. Sure enough, the bundle was moving, two stick-like appendages sprung from its wrapping. He breath caught again. It was a child. No, it was a baby, he realized as the wrapping fell from its head. The baby seemed to be laughing with the young girl. This girl was a mother, a mother standing in a gazebo in the middle of a storm, laughing.

His father's gasp of awe broke his gaze.

"Do you see that, Luke? I believe your mother sent angels to the Hollow." Before he could agree, William Danes was out the door, running toward the pair with his flannel over-shirt held above his head for protection from the relentless rain.

Luke could only stare dumbly as his father came alive again in the rain that took his mother,

washing everything away.

_Wanna stay but I think I'm gettin outta here_

_I fall so hard inside the idea of you_

A/N: Expect more soon. You folks are darn encouraging so...thanks.


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